


Opening Night

by TycoonTwister



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Dating, Fluff, JUST SO MUCH FLUFF OKAY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 06:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20041084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TycoonTwister/pseuds/TycoonTwister
Summary: Premieres were messy things: smelling like beginnings, the twinkling uncertainty of it. They were made of the moment when the curtain is still drawn and everything could plunge into a hell of embarrassment or surge up into breathtaking triumph, and both outcomes exist simultaneously in the actors’ mind.That was why they were an excellent place to be when you’re courting the love of your life; it always felt good to know you're not the only person in the room giddy and nerve-wrecked enough to be constantly one step from self-combusting.And Crowley was in the middle of courtship, after all.





	Opening Night

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s sleeve, smiling. He was so excited the gentle celestial heat pulsing under his skin was seeping through the layers of black leather. 

"It's just like the old times, my dear," he chirped under his breath, "isn't it?" 

Crowley mumbled an approving 'ngfh', and dared to curl one hand around the angel's side – because it was a wonderfully good excuse to touch him and not doing it would be madness, and because he was right. The New Globe _was_ a perfect ghost of the place Old Bill had been so happy about. It was, in fact, crammed with people, overheated, and chaotic in such a disorganized manner it steadily encouraged murder. 

In the confusing mosaic of bright blue darkness and pools of neon lights ringing the yard, Crowley could make out the silhouettes of people shifting on their feet, kids squeezing themselves between adults like the clever little vermin they were, babies crying in their parents’ exhausted arms. Bewildered tourists flicked their eyes around, surprised by the fug of compressed bodies and muddy English summer and twitching anticipation. The heat was pouring out in waves from the ground, foul with the peculiar overcooked feeling of sunlight-baked concrete and smog, and that in its delicious lack of anything natural had always been a favorite of Crowley – despite the sweat pooling at the bottom of his spine. 

If he squinted real hard and swapped the little stars of hundreds of smartphone screens for fans and mangled grapes to be thrown at the poor sods on the stage, it felt almost like the original Hamlet premiere. In a place like London – actually in any place where buildings and lives are built over geological strata of older lives and older buildings, and history is the dripping oily thing keeping everything together – four hundred years is nothing; certainly not enough to change the simple truth that Londoners tended to stubbornly keep being Londoners, either in bright-colored thighs or in skinny hipster jeans. 

Crowley should know that. He had been a Londoner for the best part of said four hundred years. Just like the angel at his side. 

His_ angel._ _Officially his, at last_. 

It was the opening night of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s summer season. The yard was packed way beyond capacity; they both knew every word of the script well enough to correct the actors – hell, Aziraphale would probably _do it_, muttering into Crowley’s ear and_ tsking_ uneasily at every slip; and for a pair of locals with the means and the opportunity to visit the theatre once the newbies' enthusiasm had dwindled to acceptable turnout, it was all painfully unnecessary. Crowley had already repressed the urge to flick his fingers and miracle the whole crowd on the other side of the Thames three times, so that he and the angel could have the Globe all for themselves and he could hear Aziraphale yell little encouragements to the characters and crunching his methodical way through his bag of dried fruit without interruption. 

Still, he hadn’t; because that wouldn't work out quite as well. Because that just wouldn’t do – not for a proper date. 

Premieres were said to be special; no matter how much it pained his underdog-loving soul and his burning hate for platitudes, Crowley knew it was true. And the Great Ineffable Lady knew the two of them didn’t have many chances to have _that_ anymore. 

Premieres were messy things: smelling like beginnings, the twinkling uncertainty of it. They were made of the moment when the curtain is still drawn and everything could plunge into a hell of embarrassment or surge up into breathtaking triumph, and both outcomes exist simultaneously in the actors’ mind. 

That was why they were an excellent place to be when you’re courting the love of your life; it always felt good to know you're not the only person in the room giddy and nerve-wrecked enough to be constantly one step from self-combusting. 

And Crowley _was_ in the middle of courtship, after all. Had been for the past year: since the day he had walked into a burning bookshop and reality had nearly spiraled away from under his fingertips, and instead of concentrating on the end-of-the-world part like any sensible demon – like anything but a sentimental, heartbroken human being – Crowley's whole body had kept pulsing with a single, terrible thought. 

The thought could be roughly summed up as: _I couldn't save him. I never told him. _

_ I never told him, and now there is no tomorrow I can postpone this to, and worse than that, _ much _ worse than that, there is now tomorrow where the reality of Aziraphale exists. _

Realizing you're so disgustingly in love with someone – with a fluffy-haired, impossible man-shaped thing who'd been engaged in a passionate love affair with broadcloth since the 1830s, and who would probably bite off half of Crowley's hand if he was holding a cupcake and not withdrawing his fingers fast enough – should put things in perspective; made you a tad more daring, a tad bolder. Turned out, it didn't: and when they had finally, finally kissed, pressed against the duck pond in St. James's Park, it had been the angel the one reaching out, and Crowley had trembled like a newly-hatched chick in his arms for the whole time. 

He had felt his heart skip a long string of beats as he closed his hands around Aziraphale's waist: at the _rightness_ of one body molding into the other, like Crowley's whole shape had been made for no other purpose than that. He hadn't cared. He hadn't cared one bit. He had still been able to taste Aziraphale on his lips, the small sun-warmth of him thrumming on the tip of his tongue; everything else had momentarily turned into background. 

Aziraphale had cleared his throat, then, and fumbled through one of his 'dear boy' speeches while patting awkwardly at Crowley's shoulder; momentarily forgetting how bad he was at casual when agitated. He hadn’t made a single move to step out of Crowley's trembling circle of arms, though, and his fair skin was still flushed a lovely peach pink all the way to his ears. It had felt so good it had left Crowley reeling. 

_Let's go have lunch, shall we, my dear?_ Aziraphale's voice was fluttering wildly, a startled bird's wings trying furiously to beat themselves back in balance. He giggled. _ Although I think I can really use something sweet after all the excitement – _

That – that was the moment Crowley fully realized what he had almost lost: what they had missed and danced around in elaborated mating dances for thousands of years. It made him nearly brave. It sent a pulse of boldness ripple through him. 

That boldness pulled him forward, and made him take the angel's hand – shock Aziraphale into soft silence when he pressed it to his lips. Looking up at him, nothing but a charged stretch of air between them, his shades lost somewhere in the grass, Crowley started telling him what he planned to do now. 

As he talked, he discovered with some amazement that he had indeed planned for it – for a time approximately as long as Earth itself. Every time he had caught sight of the angel's pale hair in the sweet-smelling gardens of Babylonia as he laughed with his book nerd friend Assurbanipal, every time he had glimpsed in the flickering candlelight of a Carolingian _scriptorium _the delicate curve of his throat, a stubborn, awkward part of Crowley had busily toiled away for this day, doing the one thing that should be even more unfathomable to a demon than love: hoping against all evidence. 

Well, he had always been creatively bad at his job that way. 

_Hold on a sec, _ angel, he said. He reassured him he would feed him in a moment; proceeded to tell him that, now that he felt sufficiently sure the Earth would stay where it was for a long time coming and that Aziraphale wouldn't mind any of it, he had every intention to do this the long, grandmother-approved way – and therefore to properly court him for the at least the next handful of years. He had lavish dinners to arrange; daily deliveries of flowers – creamy Tea roses, of course – to plan, and impromptu vacations to schedule, car doors to open gallantly and umbrellas to offer under sudden downpours and bashful kisses to steal on the steps of the bookshop. 

Aziraphale blinked – those ridiculously long eyelashes of his fluttering briefly against his cheeks, the blush still heating them; started saying there was hardly any need to go through all that business. 

_ We've known each other for six thousand years, my dear Crowley; and I think our mutual sentiments have been made – reasonably clear. You don’t need to trouble yourself with wooing me. _

At that, Crowley laughed the kind of cawing laughter a deranged raven could make; all traces of suaveness flaking off him like soot. _Oh, angel, you don't get it yet, do you?_ he wheezed out, and explained. 

He explained that the idea of spending the next decade romancing the hell – _heaven_ – out of him was the farthest thing from trouble Crowley could conceive; hard work maybe, but the good, honest kind that left your muscles aching cleanly and endorphins rushing through your body. That in the darkest times of his life – like the whole excruciating, crawling misery that was the fourteenth century – the one thing that pulled him through was the chance that one day he would be able to follow every inane courting ritual humans had ever come up trying to make him happy. 

He said the last words with his mouth still against Aziraphale's small manicured fingers; he realized at some point of his speech he must have had leaned closer. His free hand was still brushing at Aziraphale's side, ghosting over the line of his waist. Now that he was allowed to touch him, to hold him, Crowley felt the calm, leaden certainty they were going to have to snap off his fingers one by one to persuade him to let go. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, though; eyes flicking downward, lips pulling in a small, dazed smile. The soft glow of him was churning gently, bubbly like champagne. He was shocked; he was pleased. It made Crowley’s breath catch and his lips press harder to Aziraphale's skin – because it was plain wrong that his angel should be so surprised courting him could be seen as anything but a priceless privilege. 

_Well, if you insist –_

_I do,_ Crowley said – without the slightest hint of hesitation, even if his voice was crackling all around the edges. _Let me tempt you, angel._

_Then – temptation accomplished, my dear._

That was one crisp September morning, all yellow-edged leaves and skies the gray-blue of Aziraphale's eyes; it was also more or less the reason Crowley was currently performing a convincing impression of a tightly-crushed sardine on this particular June evening. He had caught the longing glances Aziraphale kept casting at the leaflet with the Royal Shakespeare Company programme, the one pinned to the bulletin board of the little tea shack they favored on rainy days at the park, and immediately started making plans to take him there. It was a reflex; Crowley had long since realized someone – _She Herself, he suspected_ – must have rigged his system to make it physically impossible for him to be less than outrageously indulgent to Aziraphale's every whim. 

Crowley felt a shift at his side. A head came to rest gently on his shoulder. 

“You know, this was quite gentlemanly of you, dear boy – bringing me here, tonight." From the way the words echoed off his throat, Aziraphale's lips must be less than one inch from his neck – the phantom warmth of them nearly leaving imprints on his skin like fingers in soft wax. 

Crowley swallowed, hard. He felt the shape of a smirk move against his Adam’s apple. The angel was absolutely brilliant at being alternatively completely clueless about the effect his proximity had on Crowley and wickedly good at wielding it with surgical precision, depending on the specific circumstances. 

"Especially considering our – privileged relationship with the play. And the fact I know you positively hate crowded events." 

Crowley dramatically rolled his eyes, knowing the angel would glimpse the flash of gold behind his glasses. He even managed a half-shrug. 

"I'll have you know I've been at my fair share of rock concerts. Wembley in 1986, now _that _was a crowd. You're the one who gets testy if there are more of five people at the same time in the bookshop." 

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, like a cat pawing at snow for the first time and finding it unforgivably wetter and less comfortable than plush sofas. 

“Of course I do: people always want to touch my books. _Open them_." 

"Opening books in a bookshop – people these days. The nerve." 

Aziraphale mumbled something under his breath about sharp-tongued demons; Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about his scrunched-up nose. He was assaulted by the urge to bend down and kiss it, and the realization that he could potentially do it, that he _was allowed to_, flooded his veins like the kind of liquor the angel favored – sweet, plum-colored, and making your brain trickle out of your ear by the second glass. 

"I suppose you're right, though," Aziraphale was still talking. Something in the tone, in the secret smile hidden in it, made Crowley pay closer attention. "I do admit I'm not particularly fond of large numbers of people forced to share the same place – the King’s Drawing Room was a real nightmare back in the day. But this…" – he flicked his hand towards the churning crowd, the screaming children going through the routine evening shrieking spell, the smell of sweat and summer and dust rising to dull blue of London sky – "... it brings back good memories." 

Crowley softened: every inch of him, from the toes of of his snakeskin boots to the tip of his black-nailed fingers. 

"It does," he said, because it did. 

"You were quite gallant that day, too. About making – _making sure_ ," Aziraphale went on, gracefully skidding around less savory if somewhat more apt descriptions like_ warp reality_ or _perform frivolous_ _dark miracles_, "good William's work received the praise it deserved. And just because I... had hinted at the fact it would have pleased me greatly." 

There was movement beyond the stage curtains: the energy in the yard sloshed, coalescing into something more focused, winding up to release energy. Crowley thought of first times, of horrible defeat and earth-shattering victory coexisting in the same space between one beat and the next, of the way his blood still flushed with starlight every time the angel brushed his skin, and let out another of his deranged-raven caws. 

"As if you had any doubt I would do it, you tease of an angel," he growled, slightly drunk, slightly unsteady. He wrapped his arm more securely around Aziraphale’s side; breathed the rest into his ear. "As if you didn’t know all you had to do was ask, and I would have done _anything_." 

He heard the sharp _whoosh _as Aziraphale sucked in a breath; humming with an emotion so raw he worried his angel would start glowing like a well-dressed magnesium flare. It felt good, though; it felt like an extra two shots of the plume-colored liquor down the throat. It meant Aziraphale understood the truth in his words, and it made him tremble as much as it made Crowley. 

Which was nice, but not surprising: because if Aziraphale was the single thing Crowley would lie down his life for any time, he was also, incidentally, the one creature he would trust with it. 

Excited murmuring washed over the public. The lights flickered and dimmed to aqueous half-dark. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but suddenly he was pressing himself back to Crowley's chest – nestling himself determinedly against the curve of his collarbone, head tilted back on his shoulder. 

Crowley felt himself still for a long moment, nerves crawling in knots to the surface. This was new, and unexpected; this was more than they had ever dared in public. He was struck by the realization that the shifting throng of people around them would cast a casual glance at their side, and see them like that: two human-shaped shadows, heads tilted toward each other, one fair-haired enough to have a nimbus of white around the edges, bodies clasped so tight you couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. _ Lovers,_ they would think; some of them, slaves to the cumbersome human headache that was the whole concept of gender and sexual orientation, thinking different, coarser synonyms, but still – _lovers_. One being giving themselves to the other, and the other way around. They would think Aziraphale belonged to Crowley, and – _most importantly, impossibly more importantly_ – that Crowley belonged to Aziraphale. 

Crowley thought all these things, and felt hungry for a world where people thought of them that way all the time. Hungry enough to be daring. 

He took the hint; closed his arms around the angel in one reptile motion, delicate but purposeful, so as to make sure there was no doubt about how much he wanted this. He even tugged the angel back and tucked him more securely against his chest, for good measure. 

He sank his nose in the feathery nuzzle on the back of his neck. The pulse there was beating as hard as his own. 

"You ready for the show, angel?" he asked quietly, in the hush before the curtain opened. "Comfortable?" 

"Much," Aziraphale replied, a bit breathless. "Most comfortable that I've ever been in my life." 

Crowley briefly considered the spiky, awkward angles of his body, the overabundance of sharp bones of it, and very much doubted it was true. Still, as light spilled out from the stage, he found himself smiling against the shell of angel's ear. 

_We haven’t run out of first times yet, I guess._

  
  
  
  



End file.
